


Playing by House Rules

by twistedchick



Series: Gamblers' Choice [4]
Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: Multi, attempted noncon, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:46:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedchick/pseuds/twistedchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How far can Nikita change the rules in Section and still survive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing by House Rules

"The target of the mission is this woman, Filipina Suarez." Operations' voice came out of the darkness behind Nikita. "She is the brains behind the terrorist organization Facta Illicitiva, and she is very dangerous."

The display screen in the darkened briefing room showed buildings exploding, automobiles going up in flames, and the same dark-haired woman in the corner of the picture in each instance, as if she were just walking by when it happened.

"Suarez is a licensed physician and psychologist, which gives her an excellent cover. She is skilled in brainwashing and hypnotism. She has a perfect alibi for each of the events you've seen; her fingerprints are never found on any debris, she does not build explosive devices or deal in armaments. What she does is train the people who do this, under cover of her day job as a counsellor in a women's clinic. We want her files and we want her brought here for interrogation."

The lights came on. Operations continued to walk around the table, passing behind Madeleine, Michael, Nikita, Walter and Birkoff. He stopped opposite Nikita.

"Nikita will pose as a client going into the clinic for emergency treatment and counselling. Michael will pose as her husband." He looked past her as he spoke. "The two of you are to kidnap Filipina Suarez and obtain her records, with as little disruption of the clinic operations as possible and no undue attention drawn to Section. We'll have to move quickly; Suarez has a history of moving from one clinic to another fairly frequently because of threats against her life, and she's been here for some time."

Operations took a few more steps, looked at Michael, then away. "Suarez will suspect any set-up that does not look perfect. I'm depending on you to make this so authentic she will have no reason to question it." Michael nodded.

Nikita felt profoundly uneasy. She looked down the table and caught a strange expression on Madeleine's face that almost looked like compassion. She shook her head slightly and tried to shrug it off. This was just another job. Authentic meant she'd be wearing real bruises, right? That was no different from many other missions for Section One.

On the way out of the room, she felt Walter touch her hand in an inconspicuous caress as he moved toward his office. Birkoff headed for his workstation without looking at her, but cast a swift, fuming glance at Michael. Madeleine's face still held that stillness, that look almost of pity for her, so strange coming from such a pitiless woman.

Nikita felt the impact of the glances and Walter's touch hit her, with the sensation of a cannon exploding in her mind.

Authenticity, for a woman sent to infiltrate a rape clinic, could mean only one thing. And Operations had assigned Michael to work with her.

"No," she said. "Oh, no. You cannot ask this of me."

Operations turned in the doorway and stood looking at her as if she were a chair that had decided to walk off on its own four legs. "I'm not asking you, Nikita, I'm telling you."

"No."

"That answer is unacceptable." His voice softened a little. "If you're concerned about physical damage, you know our medical staff will take care of any problems that occur on a mission."

"That's not it. You can't just order Michael to rape me."

Operations' eyes narrowed. "Oh? Since when do you tell me what I can and can't do?" As he saw her gathering steam to explode, he continued, "As it stands, I don't care how you arrive at the authenticity this mission requires -- you can use a turkey baster and work out with Housekeeping if you prefer. But by tomorrow you'd better be in that clinic, looking for help. Or else." He turned and walked out of the room, followed by Madeleine.

Nikita ignored Michael, who stood waiting for her outside the briefing room. Instead, she went to Walter's office, and started to talk to him about suitable covert weapons and surveillance equipment for the mission. Through the glass around the office she saw Michael go to check on what Birkoff was doing.

"Sugar, you can't get out of this one, not if you want to stay alive. Ops has wanted to get Suarez for a long time." Walter's voice was rough with compassion. "I know this won't be easy."

"There's got to be another way," Nikita said fiercely. "What am I supposed to do, lie back and think of Section? Just to make it 'authentic'?"

"I don't think that would work," Walter said, handing her an comset disguised as a pair of pearl earrings. "You'll need to fight back to make it look good." He jerked his head toward Michael, who still stood at Birkoff's desk. "Ops isn't blind, you know."

No, Ops was far from blind. Ops had probably assigned her to Michael precisely because he knew of her reluctance to become involved with him. That, by Ops's thinking, would make them the ideal abusive couple. Or possibly Ops had just decided to be efficient and practical, and knew they usually worked as a team. Damn Ops, she thought, and Section and the whole bloody thing.

She stared at Walter's desk, tears rising in her eyes, as she put the earrings on. "I've fought back before, more than once, when I was younger. It didn't make a damn bit of difference." The anger rose in her, countering the tears. "I won't go through it again."

Walter ached with wanting to take her into his arms then and there, and knowing he couldn't do it in his open-walled office. Operations was right, this was probably the only way for them to get in, but the cost to her was too damn high. A subversive thought came to him, and he let it rise in his mind for a moment before he spoke. "Look, sugar, I don't like this a bit more than you do. But consider the possibilities ... you didn't hear me say it, but this can be your chance to take it out on Michael for what he's put you through. Think about it. You're not the only one who can carry bruises in this gig, and you're a whole lot stronger than you were the last time it happened. Right?" Walter's eyes slanted toward the door. Still a few seconds. "If that doesn't work out, call me. We'll deal with it." He pushed toward her the device he'd been tinkering with as they talked, a Skoda flechette pistol, carrying drug-loaded darts. "Knockout, six hours or so. This may come in handy on the mission."

"Nikita," Michael said, from behind her in the doorway. "I'd like to talk with you."

"Coming." She looked Walter in the eye as she dropped the Skoda in her purse. "Thanks." He felt the tension within him ease. She was thinking again, using the emotions to fuel her decision, which told him that she would find a way out of this, and probably one that nobody else would expect and couldn't counter.

"What was that about?" Michael asked her as they walked down the hall.

"Walter and I have been sparring, keeping in shape while you've been away. He was reminding me of some things he taught me."

Michael nodded. "Walter's a good teacher." They had come to his office, where he paused and showed her in, shutting the door behind her before he sat down. "I understand you have some objections to the assignment."

Nikita's eyebrows rose. "I didn't think you cared whether I did or not." She lounged in the chair across from him, relaxed but cautious.

"If it makes a difference to the mission, yes. Does it?"

She inclined her head briefly. "I'm considering the most expeditious way to become "authentic" other than the obvious one."

"Ah." He sat silently for a moment, looking past her. "Would it make a difference if you were working with someone else on this mission instead of me?"

"Perhaps," she acknowledged, "but I don't have that choice, do I."

"No. Neither do I. I suggest we find a way to do what Operations has asked of us." "Such as?"

He looked away from her, then back at her again. She wished, for perhaps the millionth time, that she could read through his expression to learn what he felt and what he really thought.

"We could start with dinner, and go on from there." He paused. "Unless you have some other ideas. The alternative would be for me to come over early tomorrow morning and finish whatever work might be needed before you go to the clinic."

Whatever work might be needed. How very like Operations he sounded. She shuddered, but concealed it by tossing her hair over her shoulder. "I think the dinner might be a good place to start. Pick a restaurant; I'm not cooking tonight."

He nodded. "Le Moulon Blanc? Szczepanski's? Minatelli's? Tsun Jin?"

"Moulon Blanc or Tsun Jin." If she ate heavy Italian or Polish food tonight it would slow her down, and the last thing she needed was to be slower than Michael.

"I'll make reservations. Check with Birkoff on any last- minute details, and I'll see you in a few minutes."

"All right," she said, rising and leaving the office. Birkoff sat at his computer, studiously staring at the screen. She stopped behind his chair. "Anything I should know about the clinic before I go there tomorrow morning? I may not be able to check in here first."

Birkoff brought up the information on the clinic onscreen. "You'll go through the usual channels probably; I don't know much about that. Ultimately you'll end up here," he pointed to Suarez's office, "and plant this under your chair or anywhere else that makes sense." He handed her a tiny chip-sized audio bug. "Don't expect to take her out tomorrow. Use the first visit to scope out the place, and get her when you go back for counseling the next day. We've learned that kind of schedule is routine for her. She usually takes a break and leaves the clinic for lunch; get yourself scheduled just before her lunch time and we can move in then."

He slanted a glance up at her. "You okay?"

She nodded, not trusting words. "I will be," she whispered.

"You need something more to get you through this one, you got it," Birkoff said, under his breath. "Drugs, weapons, whatever. Just name it."

She realized that he was blazingly furious, not at her but at Operations and Michael. The anger pouring from him was so strong she could warm herself in the flames of his emotion, for all that it was hidden to most by his glasses. "If I need anything, you'll be the first to know," she promised him. "Just one thing, for now."

"What?"

"Whatever happens, don't listen in until tomorrow morning when I call in to tell you I'm on the way to the clinic."

"Are you sure?" Birkoff sat very still, staring into the computer. His eyes, reflected in the screen and locked on hers, were troubled. He didn't look like a teenager any more.

"I don't think it would help," she whispered gently. "I don't want you hurt, too."

"Fuck that," he said to the screen. "If you need anything, let me know."

She saw how serious he was, and how upset, and suddenly realized she'd found the answer she was seeking. "All right. Talk to Walter." Birkoff gave her the slightest nod. "Turn on the bugs in an hour, and listen for me to call your name. When I do, call me and I'll tell you what's going on. But, if you can, don't record what you hear for Ops." She rested a hand on his shoulder briefly and felt the tension in his muscles release a little in response.

"You got it," Birkoff said. He brought the briefing data on Suarez onscreen again, and she went over it silently as she waited for Michael to finish making arrangements. As she waited she let her own anger flare, reining it in and feeding it into her mind to give her energy, to help her plan what she would do. She could not afford to overreact, or to go beyond what Madeleine would consider to be good judgment -- but that in itself was no bar to what she was considering.

If they wanted authenticity, they'd get it. It wouldn't quite be what they expected, but it would get the job done.

***

Dinner with Michael was unexpectedly enjoyable. He had chosen the Chinese restaurant, and she ate dim sum and shared a platter of sizzling Three Treasures Seafood. Michael made small talk, asking how she was getting on with her new neighbors now that Carla had moved away. She said they were fine, though nosy, and probably wouldn't appreciate loud noises at night, and had he read any good books lately? They debated the technical parts of Tom Clancy's spy thrillers, agreeing that the politics was woefully Cold War and the technology was equally out of date, and he suggested other suspense authors for her to read. She countered with names of musical groups he should listen to in his spare time. All in all, she'd had much worse dates.

So far.

Michael had taken the hint, and brought her back to his place instead of her own. It was in another part of the city, not far from an entrance to Section but in a different direction, a sparsely furnished set of rooms in deep colors, blues and greens, with just enough furniture for himself and a guest. A bookshelf by the window. Two chairs. One table. Two lamps, one by the chairs and one by the bed. One large bed.

She had noticed as she came into his building that he had no neighbors at home. The adjacent apartments were being renovated and the contractors had gone home for the night. Just as well. She stood at his windowsill, looking out over the city at the lights in the darkness.

"So, shall we get on with it?" Nikita said, turning away from the window as she heard his footsteps approach.

Michael reached out to touch her arm. "We could enjoy ourselves first, you know. There's no reason not to."

"Oh? What would you suggest?" she asked, moving away from his hand. "We're supposed to be married, and you're supposed to be an abusive husband. Is that something you'd consider enjoyable?"

"You know I wouldn't." He reached past her to close the blinds. "Don't you?"

"I suppose so," she said. "But I think I'd like a glass of wine first." "Of course." He went to the small kitchen and brought a bottle of wine from the refrigerator. As he reached for the corkscrew, she took the Skoda gun from her purse and shot him. The tranquilizer dart hit him in the neck. He collapsed, fortunately leaving the wine on the counter unopened.

She checked his pulse, retrieved the dart and dropped it into her purse. Now, for the difficult part of the evening, she thought as she dragged him over to the bed, saying aloud, "No, Michael, please don't do this." It didn't hurt to act as if there was someone listening, just in case Birkoff hadn't been able to turn off that recorder.

Undressing him was like playing with a large, uncooperative doll that flopped the wrong direction. She tossed the clothing into the kind of pile she'd seen him make when they'd been together on missions, and considered what to do next. If she were fighting him, where would the bruises go? She hesitated, but thought cynically that he'd probably consider such hesitation to be unprofessional. The fist she swung at him hit squarely on his cheekbone, with all the anger she could muster. She stood him up briefly so she could kick his lower legs, at the proper angle so the bruises would look right. She found a cast-iron frying pan in the kitchen and bashed the backs of his hands into it so that he'd have scars on his knuckles. Each time she hit him she groaned, for the ears of the listeners.

When she put the frying pan away, she opeened the wine bottle, poured two glasses and took a drink from one of them so the lipstick mark would be on the glass. Most of the rest of the wine went down the sink. She took the other glass to the bed, propped Michael up and poured wine into his mouth, just enough so she could tell he'd swallowed a little and would wake up to that taste. This glass went on the bedside table. Her glass she left on its side on the table in the larger room. She picked up one of the chairs there and tipped it on its side on the floor.

What else? A little personal evidence. She had worn a long silk scarf all day, one that she liked a lot, but she sacrificed it without a qualm. She tied a tightly looped knot into the scarf, as if it had been tied around her hands, and poked a finger with a kitchen knife to get a little blood to put on it. She dropped this on the overturned chair. It was a pity he had so little furniture, she thought, she could have gotten really creative. Checking her watch, she left the apartment.

Once on the street, she said, "Birkoff, I'm here."

His voice came in, faint but clear. "You okay?"

"Never better. Michael's out like a light; I shot him with the Skoda. Tell Walter I'll be at his place outside in a few minutes."

"Okay. Do you want me there?"

She had to think about this. "Will you be all right with what we're doing?"

"Yeah. It's us, not him."

She understood. "Fine. See you there."

Michael would be out cold for six hours. By the time he awoke, she'd be just about ready to head toward the 24-hour clinic's emergency room. He'd be able to swear, under oath if necessary, that he knew nothing about what had happened to her. And she could still rely on him for backup in kidnapping Filipina Suarez; he was a professional, after all.

She arrived shivering at Walter's apartment, the one he kept outside Section, within a few minutes. Walter was ready for her, opening the door and letting her in without undue fuss. He wrapped her in a blanket and gave her a hot cup of sweet tea. She looked at him quizzically, but curled up obediently on his old leather couch to drink it.

"For shock, sugar. You just avoided being raped, regardless of whatever he thought was going on." Walter had been pacing his apartment. He hated feeling helpless. Now that he saw her, he realized she was doing better than he'd expected. "No matter what Ops thinks, that isn't part of the job."

She glanced up at him gratefully. "You understand. I wish Birkoff did."

"I've been around longer, and I'm not jealous of Michael the way he is."

"Jealous? For God's sake, why? Birkoff is brilliant. He runs us all." "If you came into Section as a 14-year-old, wouldn't you idolize the grownups? And wish you could get out and do exciting things sometimes instead of staying in and playing on computer, even if the computer is safer and you're scared of going outside?"

"Yeah, I would, but Birkoff..."

Walter shook his head. "Birkoff's been jealous of Michael ever since you arrived. He's a pro, and he's been in Section a long time, so he doesn't let it show, but don't think it isn't there." Nikita thought about what she'd seen of Birkoff's emotions when Michael was around. She agreed, reluctantly. "But Birkoff has so much going for him, just as he is."

"You're right, sugar, but not many of the girls see it that way when he still looks like he's about fourteen most of the time." He rubbed her shoulders and nuzzled the back of her neck. "You're feeling less shaky now; that's good. You got the dart, right? Give it to me." She took the used dart from her purse and he substituted a fresh one for it. "The less evidence, the better." He sat next to her on the couch and wrapped his arms around her, as he'd wanted to do all day. "So?"

She cuddled against him, thinking as she spoke. "I want to show up at the clinic early on, before their main day crew is there, so not too many people see me. I need to look like a rape victim, battered and having had sex; authentic enough to keep Suarez from wondering why I'm there. I can fake the emotions; I've got enough bad memories that all I have to do is plug into one of them and I can have hysterics all over the place. But I can't fake the bruises and semen too well." She caught his hand in hers, raised it to her lips and kissed it. He caressed her cheek. "I could go to Medical, I'm sure they could help me out, but I'd rather make love with you or Birkoff -- it's got to be only one of you tonight, that way -- and I can trust you to give me a black eye and a few bruises on my wrists without beating me to a pulp."

Walter nodded. "Anyone tell you lately that you've got guts, sugar? As long as the job gets done, Ops will be fine, but Michael's gonna be real pissed about it."

"The way I left him, he won't be sure what happened anyway. He'll be out for a good five or six hours, and he'll expect me to go back to my own place, not here." She smiled a little. "Ops did tell me he didn't care how I managed to become 'authentic' as long as it happened."

"That he did. I think we can do better for you than a turkey baster and a bathroom door to bash your face on." Someone knocked on the door, and Walter rose to let Birkoff in. Birkoff looked from Walter to her, and went immediately to sit by her.

"You sure you're all right? You had me worried with what I was hearing."

Nikita smiled. "I'm fine. Michael, on the other hand..."

"You might as well tell us, sugar, if we're going to keep our stories straight," Walter advised.

"Well," she said quickly, "I knocked him out, beat him up and messed up his apartment. He's going to have no reason to doubt that he did what Ops assigned him to do ... except that he didn't, of course." She glanced up at Walter, who smiled. "Thanks for the help."

Birkoff grinned, like a pleased ferret. "Very professional of you." "I thought so," she said. "Did you notice the groans?" "Yeah. Decent sound. You want me to keep the recording?"

She shook her head. "No reason. Listen, this is what I need you to do." She repeated what she'd said to Walter a few minutes earlier. "There's one question I thought of as I was on my way over here, and I know it's going to sound strange, but I have to ask. Have either of you ever had semen tested by a police department, anywhere, for any reason? If one of you has, I have to sleep with the other one tonight."

"Yeah, all we need is for something like that to click in somebody's computer and all hell will break loose," Walter muttered. "I really hate to say it, sugar, but it'd better be Birkoff tonight. And I'm not gonna explain, except to say it was years ago, I didn't do what they claimed, and I've _never_ done that." He caught her eye on him speculatively. "Don't ask."

"So don't tell," she said. He shrugged, slightly embarrassed.

"No problem," Birkoff said. "If it was fingerprints, we'd have a problem, but that's one sample of mine they don't have."

Nikita put down her cup of tea on a side table, reached for each of them and kissed them in turn. "Thank you, both of you. I think you know what this means to me."

"Well, if we've only got a few hours, we'd better get started," Birkoff said, leaning in to kiss her again.

***

Precisely at 6:14 a.m., Nikita was on the street, waving down a cabbie, looking disheveled and upset. It was all acting; inside she felt jubilant at outsmarting Michael. She had bruises on her wrists from Walter's grip and a carefully blackened eye, for which he'd apologized, and a small but artistic assortment of bruises elsewhere on her body, most of which she'd done to herself.

"You've done this before," she said to him as she caught her breath. "Madeleine?"

Walter nodded. "Long time ago. A couple others since then. It's getting harder to fake these days, with the way forensics has progressed."

Birkoff had watched this procedure unblinking, silently, trying not to wince each time Walter hit her or she hurt herself. "Isn't there anything I can do to help?" he said finally.

"You already did the most important part," she told him.

"Well, let's do it again just to make sure," he urged her, and with a smile she'd agreed. She'd made sure both of them were relaxed and satisfied before she left Walter's apartment; it was the least she could do.

Now it was time to think about her rapists, the ones from the past, and Michael, the attempted one she'd left unconscious in his apartment. Their apartment, if they played out the scenario Ops had set for them.

The taxi dropped her off at the clinic, where she was hurried into the emergency room to go through the standard assault victim intake procedure: semen sampling, examining and photographing any bruises or marks of violence on her, taking any other kinds of evidence that might be useful in a rape trial if she decided to press charges. She gave her name as Josephine Cartier, and said she'd been forced by her estranged husband, Michel, whom she'd gone to dinner with the night before. No, she didn't want to press charges; he was her husband, how could he be charged with rape? But she wanted to talk to a counsellor; she desperately wanted to talk to a counsellor.

It wasn't hard for her to get the shakes, remembering what had happened when she was a child and her mother's lovers had "visited" her at night, or later on when their attentions had become more obvious and often more violent. Her hysteria was convincing enough that one nurse offered her a second sedative (she'd palmed the first one), if it would help her feel better.

Michael would be waking up now, wondering what had happened, and calling in to check with Birkoff on the status of the mission. If all went well, he'd show up at the clinic looking for his "ex- wife" just about the time she was through meeting with Dr. Suarez.

When she finished the interviews in the emergency room, she was directed down a long hallway to speak to Dr. Suarez, the clinic's chief psychologist and counselor, in her office. Filipina Suarez was small, elegant and spoke with a precise, Latin-tinged accent. She questioned "Josephine" about the state of her marriage, her emotional condition, and whether there was a history of violence in the marriage. Nikita answered tearfully, fussing about what would happen when "Michel" showed up again.

"He gets drunk and blacks out, and he never remembers what he's done," she told Dr. Suarez. "You'll see; he'll act as if it's all something I made up."

"I believe you," Filippina Suarez assured her, patting her hand kindly. "I think the best thing for both of you is to start you on counseling, separately and together. Do you think he'd come to counseling?"

Nikita shook her head doubtfully. "Maybe. If he thought I'd get him thrown in jail otherwise, he might come." Her eyes filled with tears again, without trying, as she remembered other times in the past long before Section, and other men who never apologized for hurting her.

A nurse knocked on the door, then opened it and peeked around. "I'm sorry for interrupting, Doctor, but there's someone here who insists on speaking with you."

"I'll be there in a moment," Dr. Suarez said. "Will you be all right here for a moment, Josephine?"

Nikita nodded tearfully. "I -- I think so." She began to look through her purse for a tissue; Dr. Suarez handed her one from a desk drawer, and left. The second she was gone, Nikita took the chip-sized bug from her purse and stuck it under a leaf in the back of the potted plant in the corner. She ran her fingers through her hair again, drew a ragged breath, and sat down to wait again until Dr. Suarez reappeared.

"Let's see, we were talking about counseling? Let's make the first appointment for tomorrow -- I have a spot in the morning, if that's convenient."

Nikita paused. "Could you make it closer to noon? I might be able to get him to come and meet me here, if it's near his lunch hour. It wouldn't be so... obvious then, would it?"

Dr. Suarez glanced at her. "You're right, it wouldn't. All right, then, I'll see you at 11:30 tomorrow morning, with or without your husband." She looked up kindly at Nikita. "Do you have a place to stay tonight? If not, let me know and I'll find somewhere for you to stay."

"Thank you," Nikita whispered, "but I think I'll be all right. I'll go to my sister's house. He doesn't like her, so he won't go there. I'll just talk to him on the phone."

"Smart girl," Dr. Suarez said. "I'll see you tomorrow. Think again about charging him with assault; some of those bruises look very painful, and we do have the photographs for court evidence. You don't want to go through this again, do you?"

"Oh, no. I'll think about it," Nikita promised.

As she left the clinic, she saw Michael in the crowd outside, watching the door. She headed down the street; Birkoff and the van were parked nearly two blocks away this time, surveying the scene. Michael caught up with her at the corner.

"What was that about last night?" he asked her.

She shot him an irritated glance. "You tell me. You're the one who decided to go macho."

He shook his head. "Last thing I remember, I was getting you a glass of wine."

"Fat chance," she said sarcastically. "Think again. You think I gave myself this?" She gestured toward her eye, which was swelling up in a satisfactory manner. He moved closer to see it, and she swerved away from him savagely. "I hope Operations is really pleased with you for doing such a thorough job."

Michael blinked. He didn't remember a thing, but something must have happened. His knuckles hurt, his face was swelling up, and he had bruises on his legs that he hadn't noticed before. "You're angry with me," he said, matching her stride as they went down the street. "It didn't have to be this way."

"Too bad you didn't say that last night," she fumed, pulling herself away from him. They rounded the corner and found the van waiting. As she climbed in, she felt rather than heard the small gasp that Birkoff made when he saw Michael's face. Hearing it pleased her, in a hostile way; it meant she had given back to Michael a measure of what she had had to take from him in the past.

She sat down as the van headed back toward Section. "Michael, we have an appointment with Dr. Suarez in her office at 11:30 tomorrow for counseling."

"Good. Where does she keep her files?"

"There's a file drawer in her desk, and I saw a box of microfiche as well. I suspect they're in the microfiche; it wouldn't do to have one of the nurses be able to read them easily, and she could say it was personal records."

"You put the bug in place?"

"On a potted plant. No problem."

They sped off back to Section. Nikita headed straight toward Medical, as operatives were required to do whenever their missions involved injury. Michael came in behind her; she ignored him. The medic who came to check them over said, "Protective coloration for a mission, I gather."

"Yes, but I don't remember all of it," Michael said.

The medic frowned. "Short-term memory loss again? That's not uncommon with a concussion like the one you had a couple of months ago, but it's a bit surprising to have it happen so long afterward. I'd like you to come back later today for a couple of tests." Michael nodded and left.

Nikita's turn came next. "I don't know why we patch you up sometimes; you just go back out and get hurt again," the medic said, sounding peeved. "All part of the job, though."

"Yes, this time. Thank you," she said, as she accepted a small container of comfrey-arnica salve that would make the bruises heal more quickly.

Madeleine met her as she left the clinic and walked down the hall with her. "Any problems last night?"

"No." At Madeleine's surprise, she added, "I took an alternative approach to the situation."

Madeleine nodded. "It's wise to consider all the possibilities. Operations is seldom adamant about method as long as the ends are achieved."

Nikita looked at her. "That's good to know. It hasn't always been obvious."

"But you weren't considering all the alternatives then, were you?" Madeleine stopped outside her office, and touched Nikita's arm. "Do you recall what I told you some time ago about your job, that it was not to make others appear competent or incompetent? I am reminding you of this again."

"I'm doing my job, as you asked. What else is there?"

Madeleine smiled. "Nothing else. I'm glad you realize this." She turned and walked into her office, closing the door behind her.

***

Nikita put in a session in the gym, training on the weight machines, then sparred briefly with one of the newer operatives who'd just come into Section. The swelling was going down on the black eye, and she felt much better than she had earlier.

Michael caught up to her as she opened the door to leave the gym. "I'd like a word with you. Now," he said. "Privately." The younger operative took one look at Michael's face and left. Michael took her arm and led her into a handball court, small and private.

"What's this about?" she asked, irritated.

"Why did you do it, Nikita? Did you think I'd rape you?"

She felt herself going on the defensive. "Are you telling me you didn't?"

He shook his head. "Faked evidence. I just finished watching the tape of my apartment last night. That was quite a good job of tossing the place."

"You tape your own apartment?" She was flabbergasted. In all her calculations, she had never expected this. He stared at her steadily. "I never took out the cameras, but I'm the only one who sees the tapes."

Except for Madeleine and Birkoff, she realized. Why didn't Birkoff tell her she was on camera there? Had he forgotten?

"So?" she asked, trying to brazen it out.

"That wasn't what I had planned. There are other ways to arrive at the scenario Operations requires for this mission than the one you apparently assumed would happen." His eyes blazed. "There was no need for you to go to such trouble."

"Oh, no trouble at all," she said. "May I go now?"

"No. Since you eliminated me from your plans, I'd like to know who you found to help you." He handed her the scarf she'd left in his apartment. "I assume this wasn't necessary there."

"What I did and how I did it are none of your business, Michael. I got the job done, as 'authentically' as Ops could wish. That's all you need to know." She draped the scarf around her neck.

Michael observed her for a moment. "You're becoming quite professional, Nikita, but you need to remember who's in charge, and it's not you."

"I'll note it in my assignment book," she told him. "Is that all?"

"No. We're going in tonight to get the files; there's a chance that Suarez is skipping town and we need the data as much as we need her. Be there at 11 tonight."

"It's a 24-hour clinic; they don't close down," she pointed out. "Are you sure you're not just trying to get out of your counseling session, Michel?"

"Just remember that you're my second wife, Josephine," Michael told her. "Not the first. Not the last."

"True. You married Section long before I came along."

He turned and left, making her wish she'd not said that last phrase. She knew he'd loved his real wife deeply, the one who had been kidnapped on an assignment and held for three years until Nikita had found her. But it was true -- Michael's loyalty to Section, despite what it had done to him, was deeper than to anyone else in the world.

***

Nikita sat in a booth in the corner of one of the dining rooms Section kept for on-duty staff. She was having dinner when Birkoff came in for coffee and passed by where she sat.

"Why didn't you tell me he had the place wired?"

"I thought you knew. You and I and Walter are the only ones who don't." He caught her surprised expression. "Most of them turn on the juice when they're out, not at home, to catch intruders. It's a security thing."

"We're the only ones who don't?"

He shrugged. "He had it turned off a few years ago, after his wife was kidnappped, but someone came after him and he decided to have it on again, just for security. I don't get to see his tapes."

"Who does?"

"Who do you think?" He left with his coffee. Nikita stared at her food until she realized she couldn't finish it, then got up and left.

***

The operation that night started without a hitch. Nikita and Michael, both heavily made up to cover the bruises, went in as cleaning staff to take care of the offices. They got into the building easily, swiped the keys from the real cleaners, and worked their way unobtrusively down the hall and into Filipina Suarez's office. Working in low light, Nikita swiped her microfiche and substituted a pile of similar-looking junked fiche that she'd gotten from Walter -- if anyone looked at them, they'd see the complete text of the publications from the U.S. Government Printing Office for 1960-87. Michael stuck a black box on the serial port of the office computer, copying every file in the computer and all computers it was linked to. Both of them started to go through the file cabinets, looking for files with the names of saboteurs they knew she'd trained.

A key rattled in the doorknob. Nikita dove for the kneehole under the desk; Michael ducked between file cabinets.

The light flicked on, and Nikita peered out through a crack in the desk. Filipina Suarez was accompanied by a young woman in street clothes. "Sit over there by the couch," the doctor said. "I'll be with you in just a moment."

"I'm grateful that you could fit me into your schedule for a session tonight," the woman said, sitting down. Nikita got a glimpse of blue jeans, good street boots and the edge of a leather jacket as the woman dropped her coat on the end of the couch. She wondered how much Michael could see, and what chance there was that he was visible. "No problem at all. Here, I had it in my pocket all the time." Dr. Suarez crossed in front of the desk and went to sit in a low chair across from the young woman. She started to speak softly in a calm voice. "Watch the jewel. Just watch the jewel, and listen to my voice. You are feeling very relaxed, very calm. Listen to the sound of my voice..."

Nikita started to feel frantic. Here they were in the midst of a mission, and their target was hypnotizing a possible witness to their work. She hoped that Michael wasn't susceptible to hypnotic suggestions; she didn't want to find him curled up snoring behind the cabinet. She pulled the loaded Skoda from her pocket and began to creep out of the desk and around the corner toward her target.

"...You will go to the corner of Burnside and Foure Streets at 4 p.m...." the doctor's voice droned on. Nikita could see her now, facing away from the desk, one hand raised and holding a dangling cut-glass prizm. The doctor wore her collar turned up in back; rather than risk missing the shot, Nikita aimed for the hand. The shot hit her in the wrist. Filipina Suarez stared at her hand for a moment, as if wondering how that dart had materialized there, and simply collapsed.

"I thought you'd never shut her up," Michael murmured, coming out from behind the cabinet. "Good shot."

"What do we do with her?" Nikita gestured toward the woman on the couch, who sat with her eyes closed, awaiting instructions.

"You've been hypnotized -- it was part of your training," Michael pointed out. He hefted Dr. Suarez over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, and checked the hallway. "Use it."

Nikita picked up the crystal, raised it in front of the woman, and tried to make her voice as similar to the doctor's as possible. "Forget what you have been told. All that you have been told is illusion. Instead, this is what you are to do. You will leave this room, which is vacant, and go home to sleep. When you wake up you will not remember this visit. You will know that you have finished your therapy. You will know that you are strong, you are capable, and you do not need to return to this clinic. Now, go out the door and go home."

To her amazement, the woman picked up her coat and left the room, ignoring all that had gone on in it.

"Let's get out of here," Michael said. She picked the bug off the plant, slipped it into a pocket, and went ahead of him down the hall. They got the kidnapped doctor out to the van without incident, and returned to Section ahead of schedule.

***

"Another successful mission, people. Thank you and good night." Operations dismissed them from the debriefing room. "Nikita, a word, please."

She waited after the others left. Madeleine, of course, had stayed along with Ops, and sat patiently at the table.

"Nikita, you continue to exhibit a talent for -- shall we say, liberal interpretations of how missions should be completed," Operations said. "This can sometimes prove enlightening."

Nikita sat quietly with her hands in her lap, waiting for the axe to fall. Now what, she wondered. She had followed Operations' requirements for the mission and completed it without any disruptive incidents, if he didn't count what she'd done to Michael.

"Your unexpected ability at hypnotism is a gift that we wish to use. Madeleine, see that Nikita is trained as a hypnotist." Operations looked at Nikita speculatively. "Don't look so surprised; when you show us new talents and abilities we will find ways to use them. Hypnotism can be a valuable weapon."

Madeleine looked at Operations and inclined her head. She turned to Nikita. "You made some difficult decisions on this mission. You've grown. Report to me at 2 p.m. tomorrow, and we'll set up a training schedule for you."

"Thank you," Nikita said. She raised an eyebrow at Operations, who nodded dismissal at her.

It was late; she'd had a long day. She handed her weapons back to Walter and shook her head; she wanted to get some sleep. He smiled. She went home and took a shower, fell onto her bed and was asleep within seconds.

When she woke up, she found an envelope had been pushed under the apartment door. She opened it and found a single tiny earring, deep amethyst carved into a heart shape and set in silver. With it was a note.

"For valor. B"

Regular armies awarded medals for being wounded in battle, for courage under fire in desperate circumstances. Section One had no medals; you either survived or you didn't. She clutched the small jewel in her hand and felt as if she'd been given the highest honor she could achieve.

She put it on and, with a light heart, headed off to Section for her first day of training as a hypnotist.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written during the second season of La Femme Nikita on US tv (1998-1999).


End file.
